


I'm no hero and I'm not made of stone

by treefrogie84



Series: Spooktober 2019 [8]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Chuck's a dick, Self-Harm, Suicide, sometimes the only way to win is to refuse to play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-31
Updated: 2019-10-31
Packaged: 2021-01-15 17:09:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21256739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/treefrogie84/pseuds/treefrogie84
Summary: He’s always known it would come to this, an ache deep in his chest and a hollowness in his belly whenever he looked at Sam. At Cas.Sometimes he could almost forget, relaxing into the warmth of his family, but the ache was always there. He should have died fifteen years ago, electrocuted alongside a rawhead in the basement of an abandoned house.





	I'm no hero and I'm not made of stone

**Author's Note:**

> Spooktober prompt: sacrifice
> 
> So this was supposed to be canon compliant... and it was when I wrote it, before the season started. I tried to rewrite it, after 15.03 aired, and it was just getting more depressing, so I gave that up as a bad job. 
> 
> Just mind the tags, please. Be aware of what you're getting into.

It’s a rare night without a pressing emergency, beside the whole ‘God wants to end the world’ thing anyway. Dean’d shepherded his tiny family into the Dean cave, hooked up the MCU movies-- or the good ones at least-- and settled into his chair, watching over Sam and Cas like the big brother he never learned not to be.

_“The only thing you really fight for is yourself. You're not the guy to make the sacrifice play, to lay down on a wire and let the other guy crawl over you.”_

_“I think I would just cut the wire.”_

Staring at the screen, he doesn’t really… Steve and Tony’s arguments have always been uncomfortable, hit too close to home, but tonight? With everything that’s hanging over their heads? He should probably be glad Sam didn’t request Episode IV.

Lay down on the wire, an extra set of shields between Luke and Darth Vader, _take care of Sammy_.

He’s always known it would come to this, an ache deep in his chest and a hollowness in his belly whenever he looked at Sam. At Cas.

Sometimes he could almost forget, relaxing into the warmth of his family, but the ache was always there. He should have died fifteen years ago, electrocuted alongside a rawhead in the basement of an abandoned house.

Everything since then, since that reaper was forced to trade his life for a teacher’s…

It’s been leading to this.

Fifteen years of stolen time while some poor S.O.B. rots.

Beside him, Cas makes a worried noise as Banner picks up the staff, the stone egging him on. Dean reaches over, squeezes his hand before pushing himself to his feet.

He doesn’t say anything, lets Sam and Cas think he’s grabbing another beer or going to the bathroom or whatever. He knows better than to say goodbye now. Pulling out his phone, he snaps a shitty picture-- the backs of his family’s heads, backlit by the TV-- and bites his lip.

It’s the sacrifice play. Chuck’s always gone for that sort of shit anyway, so maybe this time…

He leaves everything behind, his weapons, his gear, even the Impala stays parked in the garage where she belongs. Nothing personal, nothing they can use to track him, nothing he can use to actually be an effective hunter.

Chuck finds him three states over, sliding into the booth across from him like he’s got any right. “What are you doing, Dean? You’re supposed to be hunting.”

“Quit.” Dean doesn’t meet his eyes, barely even looks up, just forks off another chunk of sausage and shoves it in his mouth. “Over it.”

“No, there’s a vampire. He’s gonna hurt--”

Dean shrugs, trying hard not to care. “People get hurt. Me getting in the mix ain’t gonna help anyone and will hurt a lot more.”

“Then Sam will die,” Chuck says, completely unnecessarily. Like it wasn’t obvious that he was going to start killing people as soon as he figured out that Dean is walking off the board. “And without Sam, Cas…”

“I know,” Dean says sharply. “But here’s the thing. Destiny is bullshit. Fate is bullshit. Hell, _you’re_ bullshit. So you can take your death portents and shove ‘em up your lily-white ass.”

Chuck snaps himself up a tumbler of whiskey, sipping it slowly before nodding. “I suspect you’ll be in touch.”

“I won’t.”

* * *

> _Whatever you do, you will always end up here. Whatever choices you make, whatever details you alter, we will always end up—here._

Somehow, he didn’t expect Chuckles to start playing with Luci’s abandoned toys, although why he thought that, he doesn’t know. The goal, after all, is to force Dean back into hunting, back into following Chuck’s lead. The croatoan virus fits all the requirements: easy, infectious as hell, and impossible for Dean to ignore.

The president gets infected on national tv, turning on the congress critters surrounding him in the middle of his speech. The ensuing panic, world-wide, kills more people than the virus ever could.

Dean swallows, staring at the newspaper a few days later, the headline triumphantly announcing the destruction of Houston. Pushing down the bitter regret, he drives to Stull Cemetery and waits.

He doesn’t have a plan, doesn’t have any weapons or spells, or hell, even a give-’em-hell attitude anymore, but this can’t continue. It’s been six months since he’s seen his family and… it’s time to finish it.

“Never thought I’d see you go like this,” Billie says conversationally as Dean picks through the overgrown weeds and headstones.

“Bullshit.” Dean snorts, glancing up at her. “We’ve had this conversation before. Just keep your end of things. Everything dies, and it’s been my time for decades.”

“And Sam? Castiel? The old Death was right-- they won’t let you go, Dean. No matter what, they’ll try to bring you back.”

“Free will, even for you.” Dean shrugs, weighs down a folded sheet of motel stationary on a nearby headstone with a rock. “It’s not a note. If they ask, can you--”

Billie stares at him, expressionless, and Dean nods. “Right. Of course not. Sorry.”

Taking a deep breath, he looks across the graveyard, across the road to the old farmhouse. Sucks that he’s fucking their day, but if he doesn’t--

“Dean, you’re stalling.”

“Yeah, I guess I am.” Lining up the point of a knife-- nothing special, just an old bowie he picked up at a flea market-- he falls forward, lets gravity and intention take care of what he needed to do.

He keeps his eyes on Billie, sinking into her cool brown eyes as his heart shreds itself to ribbons against the knife. Eventually, she steps closer, rests her hand on his cheek, and Dean…

Slips away.

“You’re done, Dean. Go in peace.”


End file.
